


Tainted White

by vyroj



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Death, Gen, Realm of Mianite, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyroj/pseuds/vyroj
Summary: "Live," she had whispered.I lived.There was red, and then white, and then trees, and then a porcelain mask of skin and metal that smiled down on me.Character tags will be added as they are introduced.





	1. Chapter 1

    "Alva, put on this dress."

  
    "Alva, stop playing with your hair."

  
    "Oh, Alva, put that down."

  
    Alva do this.  Alva, don't do that.  Alva, Alva, Alva.  It was a couple of syllables, a string of oral spasms, that designated me and me alone.  Another waste of an already overflowing language that begged to break free from my mothers rough lips as she stuffed me into a bell shaped dress.  I had long ago realized that flailing my weak little arms accomplished me only the slight raising of the already high degrees, but still continued to do so in the meek hope that my oblivious brother would one day get the hint.  Meek was an understatement.  His studious brown eyes were currently fascinated by our mother's billowing tundra hair, with the ever present endearing, and to my private examinations stupid, content smile plastered onto his glowing face.  His eyebrows did not so much as twitch no matter what I did, and of course he made no move to aid me.

  
    "Alva, Alva, Alva."

  
    She was calling me.  I could guess that it was meant to have more punch to it, but whatever grating tones her voice was capable of reaching now just seemed like one long monotonous blob.  Oh, the adjustments the human mind could make.  It appears that my mind wasn't the only one making adjustments though, as my mother was currently reacting as strongly to the barest twitch of my eyebrow as she would have to an exclamation of "Yes!" from my brother, practically dragging my out the door with a goofy grin.  Well, perhaps not so goofy, as she was queen and it was pretty much required of queens that grins be tight upside down grimaces, but to my trained eyes it looked suspiciously goofy.

  
    Well, no wonder, as our father was standing outside the door with an unmistakably goofy grin.  Were the societal restrictions on kingship more lax than on queenship?  Or was my father some sort of freak exception?  I was inclined to believe the latter, if the way my mother immediately dropped any pretenses of sophistication to engage my father in a sloppy kiss was any indication.  Wrestling, my ass.

  
    Next to me, Andor flushed pink, which I would have taken as a promising sign of sanity, if I myself weren't absolutely engrossed with the scene in front of me.

    My throat was twisted oddly, and for a moment I thought I was choking, so I tried to inhale and almost passed out from the wave of information.  A dark red flush crept up the side of my neck as my vision sharpened with unprecedented clarity.  Every ministration of my father replayed in sharp raps against my skull, and the sharp tinge of love, and I mean the wrestling kind, flooded through my nose.  A small vein was poking out of my mother's neck, and I knew with disturbing certainty exactly what would happen if that vein was cut.  My jaw slackened, and my feet cocked forward, toes digging solidly into the ground.

    "Alva?  What's wrong?" Andor said softly.

    I tried to turn my head to face him, by my neck wouldn't respond, so I pushed some more and still nothing happened.

    His small hand squeezed my shoulder, and suddenly I was moving, turning to look at his no longer flushed face.

    And then everything snapped, and I was left reeling as my brain struggled to compensate for senses ripped away from me.  I felt dizzy, the previous solidity abandoned for some sort of off balance reality.  Andor's hands didn't feel so small any more as they held me above the ground, toned arms that were regrettably lacking on my own body straining as they held up the extra weight.

    And then, as fast as they snapped apart, everything snapped back together and I was standing again, with only the concerned gazes of my parents as any indication anything had odd had happened.

    "Something wrong?" My father's gruff voice asked.

    With a quick glance at me that reaped little response, Andor answered, "No, we're fine."  Satisfied, our parents quickly got to work, pulling Andor off me, or perhaps me off Andor, to rush us off to our separate adventures.  Separate adventures, that would be separate far longer than intended.


	2. Chapter 2

    "Alva, Alva, Alva," she would have called me, but it never came.  Instead, a scream pierced the air, rattling me to the core.

  
    Fight or flight.  I had to move somewhere, anywhere, and my eyes were stubbornly fixated on my mother's prostrate form.  Something told me not to, that I had been signaled to stay, but my brother was not there to break me away from my urges and so I found myself stumbling forward.

  
    I smelled the taint before I saw it, feeling the lightly burning fumes nick the back of my throat along with the sweet autumn air.  Then the moss quilted stone lifted my body up and I saw an expanse of purpe sponge, colors drowsily swirling together and inviting me it.  I wanted to tear into it and feel the thin walls break around my fingers, but some new instinct told me that it would tear into me and rip me into shreds and my gaze suctioned down to the mess of red beneath my mother's body.  My insides felt like a tornado, rocking me this way and that way inside a frozen exterior.  I could see her lashing her hand, trying to push me away, a primal mother with primal instinct to protect her primal daughter who could feel a primal laugh bubbling up her throat.

  
    And then the purple broke the frozen exterior and the tornado came flying out in a mess of red and brown and bone and the primal laugh broke free as a ripping scream.

  
    Purple, purple, purple, before the purple, after the purple.  Purple gas ate me away from the inside, purple thorns shredded my skin, purple swarms burrowed into me, purple vines tore me limb from limb.  I could vaguely feel my bottom thud against something soft, before it was all purple again.

  
    It felt like I was in there for an eternity, bathing in my death, when something that was distinctly not purple came before me.  No, it was a swirl of red and orange and yellow that burned fiercly.  It was so raw and so there that it took me a while to recognize it, and I felt an odd sense of contentment because this was my mother: a mass of life and veins and fire, not of dresses and grimaces.  It bent down next to me and whispered into my ear.

  
    Purple and red gave away to black.  I was floating, I think, but maybe I was sinking.  A figure draped in charcoal black was standing in front of me, and an upside down grimace bared rows of teeth at me.  He stretched a pallid hand toward me and grasped my heart and my soul.

  
    I would have writhed or screamed from the pain, but everything seemed so calm and serene and mellow that I felt like it would be a crime to disturb it with my mortal waste.  It seemed so much better just to relax and let him drag his fingernail across my life, to let him rip into it and tear it and flood me out into the calm and the serene and the mellow.

  
    "Live," she had whispered.

  
    I lived.

  
    There was red, and then white, and then trees, and then a porcelain mask of skin and metal that smiled down on me.


	3. Chapter 3

    My eyes fluttered open to be faced with an expanse of white.  At first I thought I was dead, and that this was some sort of strange heaven, before my eyes adjusted and I realized they were just a row of bright lights.

    In an attempt to sit up I pushed my arms against the linen, and was surprised to discover the ease with which my body lifted itself up.  It was a marvelous shock of control that I allowed myself a few moments to bathe in, before glaring at the sight before me.

    "Uncle?"

    Not actually uncle.  More like granduncle, really.  But in the sparing times that Mianite had visited me, he had insisted that the title be uncle, and I had had not the vocabulary to disagree.

    The man in question gave me a small smile. "Call me father."

    "Bu-ut." I paused for a moment, scolding myself lightly for the childish stutter, to continue and say, "Helgrind is my fa-ather."

    "Helgrind," Mianite emphasized, "Is the son of Ianite.  You are the aco- daughter of me."

    "I the -- I'm the granddaughter of Ianite."

    "Ianite," Mianite was practically spitting now, "tried to kill you.  She is no grandmother of you."

    Oh.  Purple.  I voiced this absentmindedly.  Mianite was notably annoyed by my lack of enthusiasm. "She killed your mother, Freya."

    Red.  Orange.  Yellow.  Black.  In moments everything rushed back with crushing clarity, and I was left reeling.  If I had had the presence of mind to notice, I would have seen a smirk carving into Mianite's face.

    Ianite killed my mother.  Something resembling protectiveness but much angrier welled through me, and the room began to rattle.  Rays of light bent into irregular shapes, swirling around bars and sifting the metal into new forms.

    "Shhh.  Shhhhhhh." Mianite shook my shoulders, and the curved light snapped back into lines.  I stared at the new string of metal hanging above my bedpost.

    "One of your new powers," Mianite explained.

    "Powers?"

    "I fused my blood with you to make you my acoly- my child, I mean."

    I contemplated this.  The image of the hooded man burned in my retina as I lifted my face to stare at Mianite. "Did I die?"

    Mianite heaved a sigh. "You came close.  My powers brought you back from the brink of death."

    "There was, there was a man.  He ripped into me..." I brought my hand up to touch my heart, before jerking back in shock as I caught sight of.. it.

    "It" was an aluminum contraption of five multi-jointed protrusions with small gears rolling inside, wrapped and fused with a silver mesh that hummed with energy.  Artistically bent pads adorned the outside.  I pulled my sleeves back to find something similar running up to my shoulders before finally giving away to flesh, but even there I could see metal running into my skin and when I straightened my body it was with a feeling of power.  I flexed "it" and it felt just like my fingers but stronger, and when I touched them together there was a small metallic cling.  I lifted my leg and dropped it on my other, and heard a similar sound.

    "When I found you, you were missing all of your limbs, Ianite's work I presume.  So I made these to replace them.  Reinforced the rest of your body too, to balance things out.  Crafted it all myself.  Do you like it?"

    I tore my gaze away from my new limbs to examine him.  He looked hopeful, awaiting praise or gratitude, and there even seemed to be that hint of desperation of a gift giver.  But that wasn't all I felt.  The instinct was there again, and it was telling me danger, it was telling me do the right thing or die, and the image of this hopeful father was all to easy to picture as murderous.

    "Is it not the right length?  Would you like me to shorten it?"

    I didn't want to die.  I didn't want to have my soul shredded by the hooded man.  I wanted to live.

    So I smiled and said, "Thank you, father."


	4. Chapter 4

    I had always imagined blood to be salty, maybe even sweet, and certainly umami.  But I was disappointed to find it to be bland, watery, and metallic.  I was also, this time more inexplicably, disappointed to find that my first taste of the stuff would be from my very own nose.

    When Mia- my father first told me of his plan to train me upon my medical release, I admit to feeling some amount of excitement.  The scene my painkiller dosed mind had conjured had been grand, and though I don't care to even recall the specifics, it may have been derived from one of my brother's table talk ramblings.  In retrospect, this result was much more rational and downright logical had I bothered to think about it: throwing was one of the more complex and well rounded movements the arm could make, but that didn't stop the thread of bitterness I felt as I cradled my swollen nose.

    Cradled my swollen nose with a metal hand.

    At least that explained the taste.

    Someone pulled back my arm, and draped a large handkerchief over it. "Best not get the Lord's work dirty.  One of the guards will be back with ice."

    "I co-ould have gotten it myself."

    "No, no, focus on your training.  Plus, I've seen you walk.  It's faster this way."

    "Yes." I didn't bother with a comeback, my voice was too high pitched and blunt for it.  I did give a small glare though.  He just smiled, and I gave myself a few moments to memorize his face.  Blue eyes, beard, and close shaved brown hair.  Something about him seemed oddly familiar. "Name?"

    The word took a few moments for it to register. "Call me Al, if it doesn't interfere with yours."

    "It doesn't." Although Andor had called me by that nickname a few times, I had corrected him.  Too male for my tastes?

    "My lady?"

    "What?"

    "You're staring."

    "Oh." I dropped my gaze to examine the bloodstains on the ground. "Drugs."  That came out wrong.

    "Pardon?"

    "The stuff they gave me."

    "Do you not feel well?"

    "...I'm fine."  Al frowned a little bit, before turning to face the guard that was rapidly approaching.  He accepted the bag with a word of thanks, and then brought his attention back to me.  The ice did not relieve but burned, but I supposed it was better than allowing the blood build up to continue.  After a few moments I stood and walked, or more tumbled, over to the ball.  I could throw it one handed.  Al moved back to his station at the corner, and training continued.

    Just as the thuds were getting more tightly spaced, he spoke. "My lady?"

    I watched with some regret as the ball rolled to the other side of the room. "Yes?"

    Al picked up the ball and tossed it back.  I surprised myself by catching it midair. "I've a daughter your age.  Amelia.  Since we've moved recently, she's become a little withdrawn.  Not really anybody her age.  So I was wondering..."

    "No."  A little blunt. A lot blunt, but I resisted the urge to try anything else.

    "Why?"

    I stared at the ball in my hands. "Training.  I don't want to die."

    Al gave me a look of exasperation. "I'm all for playing catch, here, but would one day off hurt?"

    "I can't be distracted.  I can't f-forget."

    "Forget what?!  What could possib-," Al suddenly paled and stepped away. "I'm sorry, my lady.  That was out of line.  Please forgive me."

    I stared, no, it was more like I just didn't turn away. His blood began to visibly drain down his neck, something that may have worried me a tad. Andor had been a full body blusher, as I could recall, perhaps this man was a full body paler. His health would probably be fine, it wasn't like he was bleeding out. The blood was just going to a different place. I understood that.

    So then why did I still feel bothered? I scanned his face, searching for the problem.

    Oh. It was his eyes. Right.

    Looking any longer made me feel sick, so I turned back to the bland wall and let the addictive repetition take over.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Andor did was cry.

Nobody stopped him or scolded him or comforted him, too wrapped up in their own shock and grief to proceed. His mother had always been a grandiose kind of rock to the castle, the kind that made you feel like there really wasn't much holding things together at all once it was gone, the kind that had you imagining its absence to draw out actors' tears, not that there was really a need to imagine any more. Alva had been... less of a rock, but her loss was a loss all the same, one that still ached at memory. The castle had shuddered to a cold stop. Not the one that had everyone weeping over flowers and pyres, but the one that had kings snapping and peasant glancing behind themselves in looming uncertainly.

The growing stink of rotted trees did nothing to assuage anyone's senses.

As he curled up in his silky sheets, he noted, not for the first time, how utterly trapping paint could feel. His walls had been smoothly sheeted with the stuff, but it seemed all too enclosing compared to the earthy wood and stone. Heck, the castle felt oppressive. As did the trees, the kingdom, the world, and most of all, this goddamn loop.

He was tired of living.

_peeeb_

GREETINGS TEST SUBJECT 001, YOU HAVE REACHED THE AUTOMATED DEPRESSION HOTLINE. PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK UNTIL AFTER THE BEEP.

_crackle_

Hello there, how may I help you?

_beeep_

"I'm Andor. I think I'm depressed."

Yes, yes, we've gone over that. Would you like to talk about why?

_beeep_

Oh for fucks...

PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK UNTIL AFTER YOU ARE BORN.

There we go.

"What if I'm never born?"

Tough luck bud.

"I'm depressed because no matter what I do, I still have to look at these damn walls. I'm depressed because the only person I have to talk to is myself, and maybe later Alva and Cody, and that it's all so _dull_. I'm depressed because there are only three gods and I've met them all and they're all so small world and human. I'm depressed because even when I did find it, even when I did find that world that I so coveted, it turned out to be nothing but a pocket sized void and, soon after, the bars of my childhood bedroom. I'm depressed because I'm tired."

Have you tried to escape?

"Yes. I've tried destroying everything, I've tried saving everything. I can't escape from nothing."

What of the powers?"

"I've been an alcolyte for every god."

But what of their powers?

"Isn't that what been an alcolyte entails?"

The gods aren't personifications of powers. There are too many inconsistencies.

"Oh?"

Yes. Haven't you noticed? Mianite and Dianite are both bringers of their aspects. But Ianite brings nothing, instead drawing power from hers, weakening when it is weakened, for no discernible discrepancy.

These gods are not powers, they are mere carriers. Pawns.

"And you think these powers are the key to my freedom?"

Freedom? You're already partially free, in that sense. I thought we talked of freedom of the soul.

"Isn't that what I refer to?"

The powers will cure the former, once and for all. Your soul is for your own, I think you'll find.

_peeeb_

***    

Andor awakes in a comfortable daze, and for a precious few moments there's nothing but him and his blanket's warmth. And honestly, that could be all there is, if he lets it. He could just lock his doors and let himself slumber, turning away food until his body was nothing but a pile of bones in silk sheets. His father would be devasted, but not crippled. Life would go on without him.

Until the inky man teased the flesh of his heart with a cruel smile, and left him tumbling down back down to the feet of despair.

He felt the possibility as clearly as if he had lived it. There was a slim possibility that he had.

He sighed into his pillow, wondering not for the first time, _why him_?

Why not Alva, whose cynicism already matched that brought about by this whole mess of a situation?

Why not Cody, the observant pillar who actually had a brain to call his own, who might actually know what to do?

Why _him_?

It had to be his talents, no doubt. His easy manipulation of the matter around him, his clear sight of the thickly layered energy, skills that surpassed that of even the trained Alva. But this reasoning was in itself circular, for what had granted him skill other than the very powers that held him in this malignant loop?

Right on cue, sharp knuckles rapped softly at his door. "Young master Andor?"

Andor lifted himself and checked his body, predictably seeing only the garments of a prince long gone, but more importantly, one devoid of weaponry. "Come in," he called out softly.

The door crawled open, and the soft face of a castle handmaiden greeted him, her eyes cast carefully down at the floor. Tirose, he recalled distantly.

"I've brought your breakfast, young master."

"Thank you, Tirose. You may put it at my bedside, I'll get to it shortly."

"Yes master." Tirose quickly moved to his nightstand, which, Andor realized belatedly, was a mess of books and trinkets. He hurriedly moved the books onto his bed and shoved the trinkets into a waiting drawer.

"Ah," Tirose said as she placed the tray down carefully, "Would you like to get dressed?"

"I can do it myself, but thank you."

Her eyes raised briefly in surprised. "Yes master."

Andor peeled off the top of the tray to find an abundant feast of sausage, eggs, and hot buns. He laughed.

"Young master?"

"Oh, it's nothing, don't worry about it. How are you faring, Tirose?"

Tirose tensed. "I am most grieved for the deaths of master Freya and young master Alva, master."

"Alva?" Andor questioned as he toyed with the sausage, trying to remember the last time he had eaten them. "Did you ever serve her?"

"Er, no master. But I've heard great things about her."

"I see." Andor closed his eyes and sighed. "I can take care of the rest myself, you should get back to the kitchens. Here, take a bun for the way."

"Y-yes master." Tirose hastily accepted the bun and bowed out of the room.

The air tittered happily around, shrouding him comfortingly. He'd long learned not to bother to ask why, instead springing forward to devour his meal.

Nearly an hour later, he slipped into an outgoing caravan, and watched the castle fade in the distance.

Nearly two hours later, King Helgrind rushed into his son's room, clamoring past a discarded tray to peer at a smooth sheet of parchment paper. In the wardrobe, two sets of outer wear and an assortment of knives were missing.

_Father,_

_My mother, Freya, is dead. I have left of my own will to conduct important business in her absence. I will return in a year. Please do not waste castle resources on trying to find me until then._

_Andor_


End file.
